in which the word ‘pustulent’ was considered, but rejected

10 October 2006

So I have this rash.

And frankly I think that opening tops out “It was a dark and stormy night” any day of the week. For anyone still reading [hi, please don't email me about your own rash] you can be assured that indeed I do have a rash. All up the inside of my arm, no less. I repotted my Christmas tree from last year (yes, it’s still alive – I’m as surprised as you are) into a large Ikea self-watering plant pot. I can’t remember its Ikea name: SKORNFUL maybe, or HYMEN. And in the process I had to get up close and personal with the tree (turns out when you leave a tree in a small plastic pot for a year, it’s all over the pot like a fat kid at a buffet). Wrestling with a pine tree is not half as much fun as it sounds. And it sounds like no fun at all. Anyway, my tree-rasslin’ arm is now covered in tiny red raised dots, some of which threaten to ooze. I KNOW. You come here for the imagery, just like a food blog. I know I do.

So I was sitting in a meeting the other day, hangin’ out, scratchin’ ma rash (must… not… link… pictureohnotoolate) — OK I wasn’t really scratchin’ ma rash, I was scratchin’ ma ear. And I realised the earring in it was half hanging out, because it had no butterfly, which … you know what? This story isn’t really going anywhere, and I’ve completely lost interest because I’ve grossed myself out with the rash thing. Let’s wrap this thing up. Lost butterfly, carefully remove earring and store in a safe place, forget location of safe place, panic ensues, found earring, found butterfly, all is right with the world.